The Accident
by Harthad
Summary: With the loss of the Refuge and most of his money, Mr. Cromwell makes for a very angry man. What happens when he sends his two nephews, Peter and Mace, to get rid of the person who stole his fortune away from him-Jack Kelly?
1. Assignment

**November, 1899**

"Ha, didya see his face when we shoved 'im in the garbage can? He was-"

"Yeah, yeah, I saw it, Mace!"

"Yeah, but he got so much toma-"

"I said, I saw it, Mace! I was there!"

"Yeah, hahaha. So was I."

"...You shoved him in the can."

"Haha, I know! Right, Pete?"

"Don't call me that."

"Stinky Pete."

"I said, stoppit!"

"Owww! What was that fer?!"

"Fer callin' me Pete."

"Boys, boys!" a stern, aggravated voice cut into the twin's bickerings. A once proud man, now slightly hunched with the weight of his dismal fortunes, strode into the dimly lit room. A tall, lean boy with greasy hair that stuck up like a bunch of weeds stood sullenly by the shaft of light that barely illuminated the sagging door. Standing next to him was his stocky twin, balling his meaty hands into fists with a stupid grin on his face.

"What have I told you about fighting in the apartment?! Take it outside if you're so keen."

"Yes, Uncle," the pair muttered, but the stocky one punched Peter in the shoulder. "What does 'keen' mean?"

"Shut it."

"Boys!" Their uncle rolled his eyes, taking a step forward. Peter and Mace gave each other glances, but their uncle cleared his throat.

"What, Uncle?" Peter dared to ask. Mr. Cromwell rolled his eyes again. "You know I hate your bickering."

"Well, we wouldn't be fightin' if we had somebody tah beat up-!" Mace muttered before Mr. Cromwell shot him a deadly stare. He quieted down reluctantly, going to look at his boots.

"As it so happens, Mace," Mr. Cromwell began smoothly, "I have a job for you. Both of you."

Mace held up his head, eyes lighting up. "Who?! Who do we gotta beat up?!" he asked, immediately jumping to conclusions. Peter sighed, facing their uncle. "I don't want no part in this, Uncle-"

"That's why you'll the brains, Peter, and Mace here will carry out the...dirty work, shall we say." Cromwell interrupted with a small smile. "There is someone I want you to get rid of. A certain boy who goes by the name of Jack Kelly."

Mace snickered. "That newsie leader? The fella who started that stupid strike?"

"That stupid strike where we got paid for beatin' up those newsies," Peter reminded him. "So? Why do ya care 'bout 'im, Uncle?"

"Profits, boy. Investments. And a foolish mistake, one made by Joseph Pulitzer. And Warden Snyder."

"Oh, I heard o' him, he got thrown in jail after that jail closed-"

"The Refuge, Mace! The Refuge. And with it went thirty-percent of my profits. I intend to take my revenge on the very person who caused it to be closed."

"Who's that?" Mace asked, and Peter sighed. "Jack Kelly!"

"So you boys-yes, you too, Peter-must find him for me. And break him."

Mace's face alighted up in a stupid, gleeful grin. "Break 'im so he can't walk?"

"Yes. Fine. Whatever you want. I just want him gone."

"Gone, hahahaha, yeah, we can make 'im gone awright-"

"Shut it, Mace."

"Here. So you know what he looks like." With a flourish, Cromwell drew a faded newspaper clipping from his coat pocket. The main story was highlighted by a picture of several boys, all holding newspapers triumphantly in the air. Mace laughed, and jabbed his fat finger at one of the boys. "Remember 'im? We beat 'im up."

"Yeah, yeah, I 'member. So who's this Jack Kelly, Uncle?"

"That one," he pointed at a tall newsie in a blue vest, hat and shirt.

"Don't look so tough," Mace said cockily. Cromwell gave him a baleful look. "You'd be surprised, boy. He loses his nerve quite quickly, though. Didn't even want to help that poor boy who got thrown into the Refuge during the strike."

"Who, that one?"

"Yes."

"He looks stupid."

"So do you," Peter muttered.

"Well, boys. Now you know your...victim, let's say, you will find him tomorrow. Make it look like an accident."

"Do we gotta?" the question fell from Peter's mouth, but he quickly tried to backtrack. "I mean, Uncle, if all this kid did was take your money, can't ya just...get it back? You're rich enough-" He was cut off as Cromwell slapped him across the face. "Not after what that boy did to me, Peter. And if you get any more ideas about questioning me, I can assure you will be sleeping on the streets tonight."

"Fine," Peter mumbled, and grabbed Mace by the arm. "C'mon. We got somebody to find."

"And break," Mace added gleefully as they exited the shabby apartment.


	2. Brooklyn

"So what does 'e look like again?"

Peter rolled his eyes, aggravated. "The one in blue." Mace thumbed the newspaper again, peering closely at it as he tried to figure out which newsie was Jack. Peter sighed, and reached out to turn the paper right side up for his brother. Mace gave him a stupid grin as if to say thanks, but Peter just looked away. Sometimes he felt he was the only one who knew anything around here. The only one with common sense, maybe. But not enough nerve to challenge his uncle for their assignment. Peter thought it was stupid, picking fights with all his uncle's enemies. But it wasn't like he could do anything about it, anyways. Cromwell had said he'd throw him out into the streets if he ever disobeyed an order, and he meant it, too. Mentally, Peter threw his tumultuous thoughts into the approaching harbor. He quickly scanned the edge, seeing a few boys sitting at the dock, eyeing the twins as they walked by. Peter made no comment, but Mace grunted and stared at the newsboys. Brooklyn kids. One of them, a brown hair, shook off his shirt and jumped into the freezing water, as if to make a point. Peter blinked and took a step back at the loud splash, nearly hitting his twin. "Shove off," Mace muttered, giving Peter a push. He stopped short, noticing a very tall, very brutish Brooklyn boy block their way.

"Whaddaya want?" Mace asked, and Peter gave him a warning glance.

"Whaddaya doin' in Brooklyn territory?" the boy demanded, folding his arms over his chest.

"We don't want no trouble," Peter began, but Mace interrupted him with, "We's on our way tah find a kid named Jack Kelly."

"Jack Kelly, huh?" the boy narrowed his eyes, making a note to tell Spot Conlon about this later. After the strike, Manhattan and Brooklyn still owed something to each other. At least, that was the way Brooklyn saw it. "Whaddaya want with 'im?"

"We got business o' our own," Peter shot back before Mace could say anything disastrous. "Now shove off."

The boy moved out of their way, and Peter and Mace continued along the harbor. The dusky sunset as they soon crossed the Brooklyn bridge, feeling pairs of hostile eyes follow their progress. Mace and Peter gave each other anxious looks, fearing any one of the Brooklyn kids would attack them at any moment. The two brothers weren't exactly popular with the newsies; how could they be, with a rich uncle like Mr. Cromwell? Peter almost breathed a sigh of relief once they were into Manhattan, but here they would have a whole different set of problems to face. Where could they find Jack Kelly?

"Hey!" Mace yelled, taking the opportunity to harass a short, black haired, baby-faced newsie on the dusty cobblestone street corner. The boy's elven face glanced up, immediately cautious around the pair of irate twins. "Who are ya?" he asked, all charm.

"Don't matter," Mace growled. Peter stayed back a bit, letting his brother speak. When it came to fights, Mace was the best at negotiating information. "Do you know a kid named 'Jack Kelly'?"

"Sure I do," the freckle faced newsie responded. "Why?"

"Don't matter," Mace insisted, taking a step closer. "Where can we find 'im?"

The newsie shrugged. "'Round Manhattan," he said carefully, paying attention to Mace's growing wrath, "Or maybe over by Grand Central," he corrected himself quickly. "Or the World buildin'. Why?"

"It don't matter!" Mace yelled, and pushed the newsie into a mud puddle. Mace started stalking away, while Peter pulled him in the direction of Grand Central.

Romeo shook his head, standing up. He gave the retreating pair a sullen glance, but pushed them out of his mind. He would tell Jack about this later.

"Conlon. Somethin's up in Manhattan."

Spot nodded, standing up from the dock. He threw his red shirt on over his tanned, muscled arms, facing the messenger. "Ain't there always somethin'?"

The boy stayed silent.

"Well, Beefy?" Spot asked, impatient. "What is it?"

"These two brothers is lookin' fer Jack Kelly," Beefy explained. "They mean business."

"So? Manhattan can take care of it's own problems."

"We should at least warn 'em, chief."

"They passed the Brooklyn Bridge already, Beefy," Spot tugged on his grey cap over his messy hair. "The birds told me. Manhattan can take care of 'em."

"But what if-"

Spot held up a hand. "We're done 'ere."

"Yes chief."


	3. Sleep

"Didja see that kid's face when I pushed him down, huh?!" Mace kept snickering to Peter, who was shooting him disgusted looks. "He didn't stand a chance."

"Do ya remember what he said?" Peter demanded, punching his brother in the shoulder. Peter rolled his eyes when his brother didn't respond. "Thought so."

"I think he said the docks," Mace supplied. Peter sighed. "You're only sayin' that 'cause we was there earlier!"

"We might as well check," Mace pointed out, but Peter shook his head. "It can wait 'till tomorrow. We gotta find a place tah sleep."

"What about that place?" In front of them rose a big brick home, all lined with windows on the two stories. Laundry was hanging out on the uppermost floor, while boys of all sizes leaned out the windows to put up their clothes. The wrought iron sign above the door read Newsboys Lodging House. Peter grabbed Mace and drew him back into a doorway as he heard a clickity clack of feet coming up their way, along with a whistle of a simple tune. The clickity clack turned into a soft tap and the drag of a foot as a crippled boy appeared, making his way to the doorstep. He didn't notice the twins as he shoved open the dark wooden door, and disappeared inside the building. Peter didn't like how happy the kid had seemed, it was too...unnatural, for someone like him. Mace elbowed him in the gut, trying to get his attention. "Was that Jack Kelly?" he asked, and Peter frowned. "Maybe." He had lost the newspaper clipping that morning.

"I don't think we're gonna be able tah handle 'im," Mace said, and Peter looked at him oddly. Then he noticed the smirk on his brother's face, and forced a smile. Mace chuckled. "This is gonna be a laugh."

"Fer you, not Jack Kelly," Peter muttered.

"So whaddabout a place to sleep?" Mace urged. "If we go in there-"

"The other boys will stop us," Peter countered. "If we attack 'im there, there's no way we'll get rid o' 'im. C'mon, let's go to some alleyway or somethin'." With that, he grabbed his brother's sweaty hand and pulled him away from the Lodging House. They would just get caught too easily in there, was Peter's reasoning. Mace muttered something behind him, and Peter gave him a glance. "You're afraid," Mace told him. "You don't wanna sleep in there 'cause you don't wanna beat 'im up."

"You're sayin' I don't wanna do what Uncle says?" Peter asked half-heartedly, shoving him against the wall. "Yeah, I is," Mace challenged him. "Yous soft. You didn't even want to go on this in the first place."

Peter slowly let him go, and watched as his brother trundled away down the alleyway. Peter rolled his eyes, mainly to distract from the fact that his brother was right. He never wanted to beat anyone up, really. He was only out here because he didn't want to sleep on the streets. Peter almost envied Jack Kelly; he had all those newsies as friends. Peter only had Mace, who was his brother, anyways. A crash and clatter started him out of his reverie, and he jerked his head up to see Mace stumble over a noisy trash can.

"C'mon, I found a place tah sleep," Mace told Peter, kneeling down to sit up against the wall. Mace had already closed his eyes by the time his brother joined him.

"Pete?"

"Yeah, Mace?"

"You awake?"

"You think I'd be talkin' if I wasn't?"

"Oh. Right."

"So whaddaya want?"

"Don't get any funny ideas 'bout not beatin' up Jack Kelly tomorrow. We got a booty."

Peter frowned. "A what?"

"A booty. Ya know, a job."

"Mace. Mace, that's called a 'duty'."

"Oh. Right."

"A duty, Mace. Not a booty."

"I got it, Pete."

"Don't call me that!"

"Booty Pete."

"Shut it."

* * *

"Jack. Pssst, Jack!"

"Whataya want? I'm busy."

"Yeah, yous busy," Crutchie chuckled, making his way up the remaining bars of the ladder. "Busy drawin' Katherine again, huh? Ain't ya already done that 100 times?"

"Don't hurt to practice."

"Fer what, The World?" Crutchie rested his arms on the roof, looking up at Jack with a raised eyebrow. "Yous their best artist. Don't waste yer time practicin'. We don't practice sellin' papes, do we?"

"Sure we do," Jack muttered, extending his hand to his little friend, and pulling him up by the elbow. Crutchie pulled his legs into a cross-legged position and set his crutch down on the roof, putting a cautious hand on the polished wood to make sure it didn't stray. He quickly turned his eyes to the incoming night, where the stars began peeping out like holes letting sun stream in through the Lodging House window curtains. He started as a thought occurred to him, and glanced to Jack. Jack kept his face slightly hidden by shadow, fully focused on his charcoal drawing.

"Ya know, these fellas was lookin' for you earlier."

Jack grunted, pausing as he made swift strokes with the pencil. "What kinda fellas?"

"Romeo told me they'se the same ones who beat me up a few years ago."

Jack grunted again. "Delanceys?"

"No. The othah ones, the...ehhhhhhhhh," Crutchie looked away, thinking. He brightened as he remembered. "Peter an' Mace, those ones!"

Jack eyed him balefully. "Well don't sound so 'appy about that!"

Crutchie chuckled. "C'mon, Jack. Lighten up. All ya gotta do is soak 'em, an' they'll go away."

"Ain't they from Brooklyn? Why would I wanna mess with two Brooklyn kids?"

"Sure, they'se from Brooklyn," Crutchie countered, recalling what Race had told him. "But the Brooklyn fellas don't like 'em. They ain't under Spot Conlon's control. Besides, he would never send anyone after you."

Jack scoffed, holding up his drawing for Crutchie to see. Crutchie peered at it, and frowned slightly. "Hey, that ain't Katharine! That's us!"

Jack stood up, yawning. "Thought I'd change it up a bit."

Crutchie stared up at him. "Those fellas mean business, Jack."

Jack slipped his blue cap over his brown hair, taking a glance into the starry night sky. He gestured to Crutchie, inviting him to come see. Crutchie joined his friend, leaning one arm on the railing.

"Remember what I told ya 'bout the stars?"

"Yeah," Crutchie smiled faintly. "An' Santa Fe, an' New York, an' your drawin's, an' everythin' else you've said up 'ere."

Jack gave him a gentle shove in the shoulder. "Glad tah know my words stick."

"HEY!" came a shout from a window beneath them, followed by Spec's head of frazzled hair sticking out. "Some o' us are tryin' to sleep here!"

"Sorry!" Crutchie and Jack both whispered, leaning over to answer him. Specs humphed, and drew his head back inside. The window shut with a bang, and Jack and Crutchie stood up to look at each other. They started laughing.

"That's the angriest I've seen Specs been since the strike!"

"Nah, that's the angriest he's been since Race put his glasses in the soup bowl!"

"If you're gonna argue 'bout how angry I am, why don't ya do it outside?!" yelled Specs again.

"We is outside," Jack and Crutchie answered in a chorus. Jack sighed, going to stow away his drawings again. "Looks like it's gonna rain tonight," Crutchie was looking up at the sky again.

"Figured that out from your leg, huh?" Jack hung by the ladder, waiting.

"Yeah, an' those clouds," Crutchie pointed out to him, turning. "Better go back inside 'fore Specs yells at us again," he smiled, and Jack gestured to the ladder. "You go first. I'm gonna stay out 'ere for a bit."

Crutchie nodded, hopping down slightly as he put his good leg on a rung. "G'night, Jack."

"Night, Crutchie."

Jack leaned his weight on the roof railing, eyeing the massing dark clouds hovering over the distant buildings. He heaved a great sigh, watching as pinpricks of lighted candles went out one by one. His mind turned to Katharine, and he subconsciously turned in the direction of her apartment. Tomorrow he was moving in with her. The boys had known for a while now, but Jack had neglected to tell them a specific day. He knew he wouldn't just be able to sneak off and disappear tomorrow; he would get too many questions. His newsies always found him. Jack yawned, taking off his hat with a sleepy hand. Jack walked over to the ladder, jumping back a bit and gripping the railing in surprise as he noticed Crutchie was still there.

"Ya almost gave me a heart attack!" Jack said, letting go of the railing.

"Keep an eye out fer Peter an' Mace, will ya?" Crutchie asked him, dead serious. Jack sighed again, and nodded. "If ya think they'se really a big deal. I toldja, Crutch, I can handle 'em myself."

"I'll 'andle 'em for ya," Crutchie half-joked, and Jack pretended to kick him down the ladder. "Get some sleep. Early start tomorrow."

"When ain't there?" was Crutchie's retreating answer. There was the drag and clack of his boots and crutch until the back door closed shut with a creak. Jack chuckled to himself, and climbed down to the fire escape. By the time he got inside, everyone was asleep, or at least pretending to be. Race's snore wasn't all that convincing. Jack quickly unlaced his boots and hung his hat on the bedpost, climbing under the sheets. He closed his eyes, breathing in the musky air. Tonight was his last night here. He was determined to spend it by getting as much sleep as he could.


	4. Duty

"Up an' attem boys, time to sell papes!" Race shouted as he ran around and tore off the blankets from each newsie's bed. Mush muttered something about pie, and rolled back over. Race shook his head, and threw his clothes at him. "Get up!"

"Fine," Mush responded, and threw his pillow at Sniper. "You heard 'im, get up!"

"I'm up, I'm up!" Sniper yelled, frantically hopping out of bed and going to find his boots.

"Hey, Jack," Crutchie rubbed a hand through his hair as he limped over to Jack's bed. "Some fellas and me was thinkin' we could go down to the docks later. You know, to see the boats. Wanna come?"

Jack yawned, grabbing his hat. "Who was thinkin' this?"

"Me, Dave, Elmer an' Albert," Crutchie caught the yawn, and limped off to find his shirt. "But if ya don't, keep a eye out fer Peter an' Mace, awright?"

Jack cupped his hands around his mouth, calling after Crutchie as he made his way downstairs with a few of the other newsies. "You're like my mother!"

Crutchie just chuckled, and limped downstairs in the crowd. Jack turned his head as he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Tommy Boy. "Ya better listen to him," Tommy pointed out. "The last thing Manhattan needs is its leader beaten tah a pulp."

Jack scoffed, quickly lacing up his boots. "What, does nobody think I can handle myself?"

"They jus' don't want ya gettin' hurt, Jack!"

* * *

"Mace, wait up!"

"Whaddaya want?!"

"I said-" Peter panted. "Wait up for me!"

"But we's almost to the docks!" Only Mace's eyes could light up with happiness when the matter of beating someone up was at hand. "You know those newsies said-"

"I know what the newsies said!" Peter responded angrily. "Ain't as dumb as I look, okay?!"

"But we look exactly the same-"

"Shut it," Peter growled. The closer they got to the docks the more agitated he became. He didn't know what Mace had in mind for Jack Kelly; he didn't want to know, either. Peter and Mace had followed the group of newsies (who knew there could be so many!) as they left their lodgings until they got to that Distribution Center by the World. They had hid behind a wall, watching the boys as they bought their papers, and by chance, had overhead a few saying they were going down to the docks later that day. That 'few' had included Jack Kelly. What had been a dumb comment by Mace had turned out to be pure luck, as Peter wasn't really sure that black-haired newsie had even said the docks in the first place. So Mace had pulled him along until they were now rushing to the docks, hoping to get there before the newsies came.

"Pete, you gettin' some funny ideas again?" Mace asked him.

"No," Peter said stolidly. "Shut it."

"Pete, we got a booty-"

"It's a duty, Mace!"

"-to Uncle Cromwell!" Mace stopped, glaring at Peter. "Ya can't forget. Ya can't go soft now. We gotta get rid of this guy."

"Don't call me Pete," Peter tried to shove past his brother, but Mace pushed him down into the road.

"I mean it, Pete! D'you wanna sleep on the streets?!"

Peter glared up at him, and suddenly rose from the mud with an angry yell. He rushed at his twin, punching him. Although he knew his blows just felt like nothing to his brother, Peter needed to do something. "This is all your fault!" he yelled into Mace's face, who kicked him away. "We just slept on the streets last night!" Peter yelled again. "What makes ya think if we do this for Uncle that he won't just kick us out again?!"

Mace stared at him, processing this statement through his sluggish brain. "'Cause I trust him more than you," he growled. "Now get on your feet, wimp. We got a Jack Kelly to beat. Shouldn't be fightin' each other."

"Easy fer you to say," Peter mumbled, rolling over to his feet.


	5. Swimming

"Davey! Hey, Dave!" Albert cupped his hands around his mouth as he spotted the familiar pair of brother and brother selling papes on the sidewalk. The plain, short-haired face of Davey Jacobs turned to him and his small group of Race, Elmer and Crutchie, who were walking up as well. Crutchie quickly stopped at the last moment, playing up his leg in order to make a sell to a respectable gentleman in green that stood by him.

Les Jacobs ran up to the threesome, an excited grin on his face. "Jack told me he was movin' in with Katharine today!"

"What?" Race frowned around his cigar. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Les, you know what Jack told us about keepin' it a secret!" Davey hurried up, admonishing the younger boy. He gave an apologetic look to Albert, Race and Elmer. "Sorry."

"It's alright," Elmer shrugged. "We was probably goin' to find out anyways."

"Jack knows he can't hide anythin' from us newsies," Albert added, and turned as Crutchie came limping up to the group. "Sold my last pape!" he said gladly, and held up a shiny nickel. He grinned mischievously. "An' I gotta nickel."

"That's great!" Race said enthusiastically, slinging his arm around Crutchie's shoulders. "That gimp leg sure is a goldmine, ain't it?"

"Aw, I think it's jus' my good looks," Crutchie laughed. "Dave, you comin' with us?"

"Comin' where?" Davey asked.

"Docks," Albert responded. "Last real sunny day of the year and all. Figured we'd take a dip."

"In November?" Davey shook his head in exasperation. "I sold all my papes anyways. I'll come."

"Albert!" Les suddenly was next to his side, panting a bit. He pointed down the street. "Those kids looking for you?"

"What kids?" Elmer asked, and they all turned, craning their necks to see who it was. Crutchie's face fell first. "It's Peter an' Mace, we gotta go!"

Race swore, and grabbed Crutchie's shirt sleeve to push him in front of the group, who soon took off like a copper was at their heels. A copper would pay no attention to this little event, however; they had no business in street children's affairs. Peter and Mace flung themselves down the road, kicking up dirt and pebbles as they chased after the newsies. Their feet pounded the dusty road as they frantically pushed aside New Yorkers in their frantic chase to catch their prey. "Ya can't hide from us forever!" Mace shouted to them, and Peter grabbed his arm. "Wait," he panted, out of breath. "Slow down. We'll get 'im when he's alone."

"Ya sure?" Mace asked.

"Course I'm sure!" Peter snapped. "We-we gotta do what Uncle says, so why not do it right?!"

"Okay," Mace muttered, taken aback by this sudden change in his brother. He started walking again, noticing through his beady little eyes that they had lost the newsies. But they were most definitely heading to the docks.

"Think we lost 'em?" Davey panted, chancing a look over his shoulder. He slowed to a stop, seeing no one except the general population of the city going about their business. No bullies, Peter or Mace or otherwise, were in sight.

"Why were they looking for you?" Les asked, running up to Albert, who shrugged. "They was lookin' fer Jack earlier," he answered. "But I dunno why they'd be after us."

"Whoooh!" they turned to see Race running by them with his shirt off, taking a giant jump into the water from off the docks.

"Aw, I can do better than that!" Albert whooped, and jumped into the ocean. With his legs tucked underneath him into a tight ball, he made a far larger splash than Race. Les glanced at Davey for permission, and started running.

"Just don't get your clothes wet-" Davey tried to say, but scrunched up his face as he was doused with salty seawater. He wiped his mouth with a hand, turning to the other boys. "Blegh!"

Crutchie chuckled, and Elmer went past Dave, taking a flying leap into the water himself. Now both Davey and Crutchie were soaked this time, but Davey was the only one not laughing. Elmer surfaced, blowing a stream of water from his mouth. "Come on, Davey!" he and the others called. "It'll be fun!"

"The water feels really nice!" Les added.

"I know, you guys already splashed me!" Davey joked, taking a seat next to Crutchie.

"Does this...get to you?"

"What?" Crutchie gave him a funny look. "The water? Dave, they'se only havin' fun!"

"No, no, that's not what I meant," Davey quickly corrected him. "Not swimming, I mean. With your leg and all."

"Oh." Crutchie shrugged. "Maybe someday, huh?"

"You really think so?" Dave asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Crutchie grinned, and gave him a slight push. "Now go on in. I know ya want to."

"But-"

"Don't feel like ya need to keep me company! I can see all o' you jus' fine."

Davey stood up reluctantly, unbuttoning his vest and shirt. "You're more perceptive than I thought."

Crutchie gave him a blank look. "What?"

Davey sighed. "Never mind." He leapt into the water, surprisingly making a bigger splash than any of the boys before. Crutchie laughed as all the boys started splashing each other, each trying to outdo each other. He slouched down slightly, kicking up water with his good leg. "How about that!" he hollered, grinning. Race, Elmer and Albert all turned to splash him, with Davey and Les joining in after a moment. By the end of this, everyone was soaked and starting to shiver, even through the cold grins on their faces. Gulls wheeled overhead, joining the happy shouts and cries of the newsies below. Race put his hands on the deck, lifting himself up onto the wooden planks to get his shirt. He looked left and right, and then glanced to Crutchie, who was watching the sky innocently.

"Okay," Race sighed. "Where'd you put our clothes?"

"Me?" Crutchie gave him a wide-eyed, naive glance, though it was hard to hide his sneaking smile. "Your clothes?"

"Yeah, you," Race gave him a tap on his shoulder. "So. Where are they?"

Crutchie shrugged, but shook his head with a smile. He pointed down the walk to a little heap of clothing down the way. Race sighed, and gave him another tap before sprinting down. Next to come was Albert, then Elmer, then Davey and Les. Davey just laughed, and said, "You're dedicated." Then they were all gone, going to put their shirts back on.

Crutchie bit back a laugh, standing up and grabbing his crutch. He slid it under his arm, going to join his fellow newsies. He had barely taken one step forward when a pockmarked face framed by messy greasy hair shoved itself in his own. Crutchie's foot dragged slightly as he took a hesitant step back, smile disappearing from his face all at once.

"Goin' somewhere, crip?" Mace asked him in a leering growl, jabbing a fat finger at Crutchie's chest. He glanced down at it, and then back up into Mace's face hesitantly. "You-you want somethin', Mace?"

"Yeah," Mace spat the word out. "I got a booty-"

"A what?"

"To break you, Jack Kelly. So I'm gonna do it."


	6. Drowning

"Look, ya got the wrong guy," Crutchie stammered, taking another step back. Mace jeered at him, and Crutchie turned his head slightly to escape the boy's rank breath. "Yeah? You think I'm dumb? Stupid as I look, huh?" Mace asked, giving Crutchie a shove in the shoulder. He stumbled back, taking a nervous glance behind him. "Well, that's you!" Mace said forcefully, giving him another shove. "That's what you are, Jack Kelly!"

"I ain't Jack Kelly!" Crutchie told him, suddenly losing his footing as he didn't feel the steady wooden planks underneath his boots anymore. He gave a terrified look into Mace's unfeeling face, dropping into the tumultuous, crashing waves with a yell. Crutchie fought for air as he sank beneath the water, surfacing and drawing in a great, strained breath. He thrashed, trying to paddle over to his crutch, which had bobbed up to the surface. His bad leg seemed like a dead weight now, pulling him under to the darkened abyss that waited to immerse him in its watery depths. He drew in another frantic breath, fighting for his life. Crutchie gasped for air, looking up to Mace-was it just a trick of his eyes, or were there two of him now? "Help me!" Crutchie called, pleading. "Please-help me! Help-"

He sank beneath the waves again as water filled his lungs to the brim. Crutchie slowly closed his eyes as everything dimmed to black, and sank like a stone towards the bottom of the ocean floor.

* * *

"Mace. Mace!"

"Is he gonna pop up again?" Mace asked stupidly, almost sad. "I was goin' to beat him up."

"Mace, he's..." Peter stared at the water below him, hoping he wasn't right. He swallowed, suddenly very, very frightened. "You killed him."

"I what?" Mace shot a glance to him, perturbed by his brother's soft way of speaking.

"You killed him," Peter shot the words out through his teeth, taking a small step towards the gently flowing waves. "He ain't...he ain't comin' back."

Mace grinned foolishly. "Then we got rid o' him! We broke 'im, just like Uncle said to-"

"No!" Peter turned on him, furious at this mistake. "You KILLED him, Mace! HE'S DEAD! There ain't no comin' back from bein' dead! We went farther than what Uncle said to do-this is MURDER. We could get thrown in jail for this!"

Mace frowned, Peter's harsh words finally penetrating his thick skull. "Jail?" he repeated smally, and Peter glared at him, hiding his own fear. "Yeah. Jail, Mace. This is murder. The cops will notice."

"Crutchie! Crutchie?"

Peter grabbed Mace's arm as they heard Race's shout from down the docks. The twins quickly ran to hide, or just simply run away from the horrible deed they had done.

"Crutchie?" Race stopped in his tracks, jamming his hat onto his head as he glanced around. Crutchie couldn't have gone far, could he? "Uh...Crutch?"

"Where'd he go?" Elmer ran up, looking this way and that.

"Race! Dave!" Albert yelled from where he was peering into the harbor. "Come...come look," he added weakly. "What is it?" Davey rushed up, boots slapping the docks. He almost fell into the water when he caught up to Albert, but was thankfully held back by Elmer's hand. The boys stared into the water, slowly becoming more and more horrified. There was the body of an all-too familiar friend floating on top of the once serene waters.

"Crutchie," Race whispered, mouth open. Albert jumped into the water, disregarding his now-soaked clothes. With a grimace, he lifted the body onto the docks, where Race turned him over. His face was still and cold, and he was deathly pale. Davey shoved Race and everyone out of the way, starting to pound on Crutchie's chest in the hope to revive him. To do something to get him breathing again, to bring him back to life. A sob escaped him, and Davey slowly stopped, his hands going slack. He lifted his eyes to the newsies and his brother, whispering, "He's dead. Crutchie's dead."

"I told you it wasn't him!" suddenly came an angry shout from an alleyway. "I told you that wasn't Jack Kelly! You shouldn't have pushed him in the water, Mace!"

Race stood up as he caught a glimpse of two stocky boys running away. He glared in their direction, and burst out, "You killed him!" You killed Crutchie! I'll get you, you bastids-!" He started sprinting after the pair, sick with fury. Albert, Elmer and Davey all ran after him, though Dave was really only trying to make them stop. "Race!" He yelled, catching up to him. "Race, please, this violence won't bring him back!"

"Get out of here," Race said spitefully, pushing him away. "Ya don't know what it's like!"

"He was my friend, too!" Davey shouted, and Race stopped, looking away. Davey took a deep breath, repeating himself. "He was my friend, too."

"We'll bring him back to the Lodgin' House," Albert's voice quavered. "Somebody should find him, an' tell 'im what's happened."

"I'll go," Elmer volunteered, voice hollow, and rushed off.

"Davey, I want to go home," Les had started to cry. His brother wrapped him in a hug, gently shushing him. "It'll be okay, Les. It'll be okay."


	7. Dead

"Well, boys?" Mr. Cromwell sat in his study, flipping through a faded books of records that sat on the desk in front of him.

"We...we..." Peter seemed unable to form a proper sentence.

"We got ridda 'im!" Mace crowed triumphantly. Mr. Cromwell gave him a glance, and slowly broke into a menacing smile. "You are quite sure of that fact, Mace?"

"Yeah," Mace nodded, but Peter shook his head. "It was the wrong kid, Uncle. We...got ridda the wrong kid."

"I see."

The study was quiet for a few long moments, enhancing the brother's fear at their failure.

"Look here." Their uncle's smile became a grim line, and he thrust a newspaper at their chests. Peter stumbled back a bit, but took the paper with his grubby hands. "News...News...boy..."

"Oh, give it here," Mr. Cromwell snatched it back, holding it up to the dim light to read. "'Newsboy Suffers Brutal Swimming Accident at Manhattan Harbor'." He shot a deadly glare at his two nephews. "I trust you had something to do with this?"

"It was an accident, Uncle, I didn't want to-" Peter started protesting, but Cromwell silenced him as he read on. "Sixteen year-old Crutchie Morris, a cripple, was found dead at the harbor yesterday. It is unknown if he was drowned on purpose-"

Here, Mace and Peter glanced at each other nervously.

"Or if he simply attempted to go swimming and drowned. His fellow Newsboys of Manhattan all will deeply miss him, says one Davey Jacobs. There will be a small funeral at Woodlawn Cemetery this weekend if the newsboys can raise enough money."

Mr. Cromwell threw the paper onto his desk where it lay discarded among the dusty books. "Congratulations, boys, you did break him."

"Wait, who," Mace frowned. "'Cause we jus' drowned the wrong person you said-"

"That boy was one of Jack Kelly's closest...accomplices," Cromwell smiled. "By killing him, you have successfully broken the very person I needed you to break. Thank you."

"So we won't be sleepin' on the streets?" Peter blurted out as Cromwell stood up. He placed a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Of course not, Peter," he said kindly. "Not this time. But if you fail..."

"With what?" Mace asked stupidly as Cromwell exited the room. "He means next time," Peter muttered, eyes downcast. He never wanted to beat up anyone again. He opened his mouth to speak, going after Mr. Cromwell. "Uncle-"

"Yes?" Cromwell asked testily.

Peter swallowed his words. He turned away helplessly. "Never mind. Good night, Uncle."

"Good night, Peter."

"Let's get some sleep," Peter added to Mace, who started to enter their little bedroom. The memory of their horrible deed weighed heavily on their minds that night, and it would be quite some time before they got a restful sleep. Even Mace, who had been proud of what he had done at first, could not get the boy's cries for help out of his brain.

The twins' sleep would be fraught with nightmares for the next two months.

* * *

Jack didn't know yet.

He hadn't read the papers that day, being busy with drawing the cartoons for The World. Jack had left before Katharine had come to visit, leaving a note that said he needed to tell the boys something. Which was, he thought with a nervous, jittery feeling in his stomach, that he was moving out. Going to live with Katharine. He cleared his throat, fixing his vest anxiously. The boys all were waiting on their beds, waiting for Jack. Only Race, Albert, Elmer and Crutchie weren't here yet. And Davey and Les, but he could always tell them later. Jack looked to the stairs, deciding to wait for them just a bit longer. Or maybe he was just putting it off.

"You got somethin' to say, Jacky boy?" one of the newsies asked, and Jack nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He couldn't put this off any longer. "Alright. Fellas!" he raised his voice. "I got something to tell yous all. As you may know, Katharine-Miss Pulitzer-invited me to stay with 'er."

Silence. Jack took a deep breath.

"I've decided to accept that offer-"

"Jack! Jack!" Frantic footsteps thudded up the stairs, and the bedroom door was flung open, revealing a haggard Davey. Race, Albert and Elmer were all crowded behind him, with Race holding something that looked like a body in his arms. "Jack..." Davey trailed off. Something in Jack's chest seized up with fear. "What?! What is it?"

"Jack, it's Crutchie," Davey got the words out heavily. "He drowned. He's dead."


End file.
